20th Victim (Women's Murder Club #20)(55)

“How many say I didn’t?”

“More.”

Chi went down the list of mourners, giving their opinions on who had reason to shoot Paul and Ramona Baron.

“Here’s the net-net,” Chi told me. “Anderson is popular. He played football. He can fix anything. And he has friends. They thought Paul Baron was a dirtbag, that Ramona was the real deal, and they felt sorry for Anderson, who had loved her for twenty years. None of them had any thoughts about the snipers, nothing. ‘Moving Targets? What’s that? Never heard of it.’ But they trusted we would crack the case. And nobody is filing charges against you.”

I sighed into the phone, told Chi I’d see him on Monday, and I’d just hung up when my phone rang.

“Joe! What’s your ETA?”

“Not tonight, sweetheart. If I could leave Napa right now, I would.”

“But … why not? Dave?”

“Yeah. Long story.”

He said he’d call me after the child was asleep. Julie climbed up on the bench and asked if I was talking to Daddy.

I handed her the phone.

“Daddy. Chinese noodles for dinner, okay?”

There was a moment of silence. Then the question “Why?” was repeated several times before she said, “Okay. Bye,” and handed me the phone. Joe had hung up.

“Sorry, Julie, but his friend Dave is in a bad way and only Daddy can help him.”

Julie threw her arms around me, and Martha dropped her head onto my knees.

“It’s okay, Mommy,” Julie said. “I just love being with my two best girls.”

I laughed at that direct quote from her father. I hugged her and ruffled my doggy’s head, and after a while we walked home, stopping off at the Chinese noodle joint, of course. Bought takeout tan tan noodles for two.

We were home and halfway through our noodles when my phone buzzed.

I looked at the screen. It was Brady. Damn.

I grabbed the phone and prepared myself to tell him I’d be fine after a day in bed, but he spared me the trouble. Jacobi had briefed him through the right hook to my face and let him know that the perp was booked.

But that wasn’t why he was calling.

“There’s been another shooting, Boxer.”

“No. Where?”

“LA. One shot to the head. The dead man was a retired cop.”

“No, Brady, no. What the hell is this? Was he dealing?”

“I’ve got more news, Boxer. Stempien ran the pictures Lemke took at the funeral. He got a hit on Barkley.”

“I’m speechless.”

“I sent you the photo. He shaved, but it’s Barkley with a rock-solid alibi for the shooting today. He couldn’t have been in Bolinas and the City of Angels at the same time.”

I looked at the picture of an average-size white man, clean shaven, wearing a black sports coat, white shirt, and a tie. Had I seen him and not recognized him?

“Lemke will circulate the photo,” he said. “You take the day off.” I laughed. It was about 6:30 p.m.

“See you in the morning,” said Lieutenant Brady.





CHAPTER 81





JOE HAD BEEN sleeping in Dave’s spare bedroom on the second floor when he was jarred awake by the squeal of hydraulic brakes and the sound of shouting.

He peered out the window and saw Dave directing a crew in overalls, carrying furniture and boxes from Ray and Nancy Channing’s house next door and loading up a large truck.

This disturbed Joe, as it would any investigator. Was there something in that house that could be evidence against Dave? If so, there was nothing he could do to stop him. In fact, the whole situation stank of secrecy, misdirection, and Dave’s uncharacteristic anxiety and paranoia.

Joe showered, dressed, packed, and took his bag downstairs. He left the house by the front door and watched the move of furnishings, garment bags, plastic tubs, and whatnots into the truck. Dave waved and called out, “This is all going to auction,” he said.

“Can I give you a hand?”

“We’re good,” Dave said.

Joe shouted back, “I’ll make breakfast.”

Comfortable in any kitchen, Joe found the coffee, set up the pot, took eggs out of the fridge, and whipped them in a bowl. There was a loaf of bread in a basket, and he sliced it.

He lined a pan with bacon, then went outside and gave Dave a five-minute warning.

A few minutes later Dave came into the house with items on his lap: a paint box, a pair of men’s boots, and a rifle.

“Wow, it feels good to send all that stuff to auction,” he said. “Anything that doesn’t sell goes to Goodwill. I got cash for Mom’s paintings and Dad’s clock collection.”

“I put cheese and onions in the eggs,” Joe said.

“Take a look.”

Dave took an envelope from his shirt pocket, opened it, and showed a check to Joe. “I can pay you back and meet the payroll, too. Okay?”

“Sure. That’s great.”

Dave placed the boots on the floor, the paint box and the gun on the chair in front of the fireplace, before pulling his chair up to the table. It wasn’t long before he began rolling it back and forth. He appeared to Joe to be preoccupied and anxious.

“You need something?” Joe asked.